章节正文
the brick house. "I remember once seeing Sally Perry at meeting.
She was a handsome girl, and I'm sorry she's come to grief."
"If she'd kep' on goin' to meetin' an' hadn't looked at the men
folks she might a' be'n earnin' an honest livin' this minute,"
said Miranda. "Men folks are at the bottom of everything wrong in
this world," she continued, unconsciously reversing the verdict
of history.
"Then we ought to be a happy and contentedcommunity here in
Riverboro," replied Jane, "as there's six women to one man."
"If 't was sixteen to one we'd be all the safer," responded
Miranda grimly, putting the doughnuts in a brown crock in the
cellar-way and slamming the door.
II
The Perkins horse and wagon rumbled along over the dusty country
road, and after a discreet silence, maintained as long as human
flesh could endure, Rebecca remarked sedately:
"It's a sad errand for such a shiny morning, isn't it, Mr.
Perkins?"
"Plenty o' trouble in the world, Rebecky, shiny mornin's an'
all," that good man replied. "If you want a bed to lay on, a roof
over your head, an' food to eat, you've got to work for em. If I
hadn't a' labored early an' late, learned my trade, an' denied
myself when I was young, I might a' be'n a pauper layin' sick in
a loggin' cabin, stead o' bein' an overseer o' the poor an'
selectman drivin' along to take the pauper to the poor farm."
"People that are mortgaged don't have to go to the poor farm, do
they, Mr. Perkins?" asked Rebecca, with a shiver of fear as she
remembered her home farm at Sunnybrook and the debt upon it; a
debt which had lain like a shadow over her childhood.
"Bless your soul, no; not unless they fail to pay up; but Sal
Perry an' her husband hadn't got fur enough along in life to BE
mortgaged. You have to own something before you can mortgage it."
Rebecca's heart bounded as she learned that a mortgage
represented a certain stage in worldly prosperity.
"Well," she said, sniffing in the fragrance of the new-mown hay
and growing hopeful as she did so; "maybe the sick woman will be
better such a beautiful day, and maybe the husband will come back
to make it up and say he's sorry, and sweet content will reign in
the humblehabitation that was once the scene of poverty, grief,
and despair. That's how it came out in a story I'm reading."
"I hain't noticed that life comes out like stories very much,"
responded the pessimistic blacksmith, who, as Rebecca privately
thought, had read less than half a dozen books in his long and
prosperous career.
A drive of three or four miles brought the party to a patch of
woodland where many of the tall pines had been hewn the previous
winter. The roof of a ramshackle hut was outlined against a
background of young birches, and a rough path made in hauling the
logs to the main road led directly to its door.
As they drew near the figure of a woman approached--Mrs. Lizy Ann
Dennett, in a gingham dress, with a calico apron over her head.
"Good morning, Mr. Perkins," said the woman, who looked tired and
irritable. "I'm real glad you come right over, for she took worse
after I sent you word, and she's dead."
Dead! The word struck heavily and mysteriously on the children's
ears. Dead! And their young lives, just begun, stretched on and
on, all decked, like hope, in living green. Dead! And all the
rest of the world reveling in strength. Dead! With all the
daisies and buttercups waving in the fields and the men heaping
the mown grass into fragrant cocks or tossing it into heavily
laden carts. Dead! With the brooks tinkling after the summer
showers, with the potatoes and corn blossoming, the birds singing
for joy, and every little insect humming and chirping, adding its
note to the blithechorus of warm, throbbing life.
"I was all alone with her. She passed away suddenly jest about
break o' day," said Lizy Ann Dennett.
"Her soul passed upward to its God Just at the break of day."
These words came suddenly into Rebecca's mind from a tiny chamber
where such things were wont to lie quietly until something
brought them to the surface. She could not remember whether she
had heard them at a funeral or read them in the hymn book or made
them up "out of her own head," but she was so thrilled with the
idea of dying just as the dawn was breaking that she scarcely
heard Mrs. Dennett's conversation.
"I sent for Aunt Beulah Day, an' she's be'n here an' laid her
out," continued the long suffering Lizy Ann. "She ain't got any
folks, an' John Winslow ain't never had any as far back as I can
remember. She belongs to your town and you'll have to bury her
and take care of Jacky--that's the boy. He's seventeen months
old, a bright little feller, the image o' John, but I can't keep
him another day. I'm all wore out; my own baby's sick, mother's
rheumatiz is extry bad, and my husband's comin' home tonight from
his week's work. If he finds a child o' John Winslow's under his
roof I can't say what would happen; you'll have to take him back
with you to the poor farm."
"I can't take him up there this afternoon," objected Mr. Perkins.
"Well, then, keep him over Sunday yourself; he's good as a
kitten. John Winslow'll hear o' Sal's death sooner or later,
unless he's gone out of the state altogether, an' when he knows
the boy's at the poor farm, I kind o' think he'll come and claim
him. Could you drive me over to the village to see about the
coffin, and would you children be afraid to stay here alone for a
spell?" she asked, turning to the girls.
"Afraid?" they both echoed uncomprehendingly.
Lizy Ann and Mr. Perkins, perceiving that the fear of a dead
presence had not entered the minds of Rebecca or Emma Jane, said
nothing, but drove off together, counseling them not to stray far
away from the cabin and promising to be back in an hour.
There was not a house within sight, either looking up or down the
shady road, and the two girls stood hand in hand, watching the
wagon out of sight; then they sat down quietly under a tree,
feeling all at once a namelessdepressionhanging over their gay
summer-morning spirits.
It was very still in the woods; just the chirp of a grasshopper
now and then, or the note of a bird, or the click of a
far-distant mowing machine.
"We're WATCHING!" whispered Emma Jane. "They watched with Gran'pa
Perkins, and there was a great funeral and two ministers. He left
two thousand dollars in the bank and a store full of goods, and a
paper thing you could cut tickets off of twice a year, and they
were just like money."
"They watched with my little sister Mira, too," said Rebecca.
"You remember when she died, and I went home to Sunnybrook Farm?
It was winter time, but she was covered with evergreen and white
pinks, and there was singing."
"There won't be any funeral or ministers or singing here, will
there? Isn't that awful?"
"I s'pose not; and oh, Emma Jane, no flowers either. We might get
those for her if there's nobody else to do it."
"Would you dare put them on to her?" asked Emma Jane, in a hushed
voice.
"I don't know; I can't tell; it makes me shiver, but, of course,
we COULD do it if we were the only friends she had. Let's look
into the cabin first and be perfectly sure that there aren't any.
Are you afraid?"
"N-no; I guess not. I looked at Gran'pa Perkins, and he was just
the same as ever."
At the door of the hut Emma Jane's courage suddenly departed. She
held back shuddering and refused either to enter or look in.
Rebecca shuddered too, but kept on, drawn by an insatiable
curiosity about life and death, an overmastering desire to know
and feel and understand the mysteries of existence, a hunger for
knowledge and experience at all hazards and at any cost.
Emma Jane hurriedsoftly away from the felt terrors of the cabin,
and after two or three minutes of utter silence Rebecca issued
from the open door, her sensitive face pale and woe-begone, the
ever-ready tears raining down her cheeks. She ran toward the edge
of the wood, sinking down by Emma Jane's side, and covering her
eyes, sobbed with excitement:
"Oh, Emma Jane, she hasn't got a flower, and she's so tired and
sad-looking, as if she'd been hurt and hurt and never had any
good times, and there's a weeny, weeny baby side of her. Oh, I
wish I hadn't gone in!"
Emma Jane blenched for an instant. "Mrs. Dennett never said THERE
WAS TWO DEAD ONES! ISN'T THAT DREADFUL? But," she continued, her
practical common sense coming to the rescue, "you've been in once
and it's all over; it won't be so bad when you take in the
flowers because you'll be used to it. The goldenrod hasn't begun
to bud, so there's nothing to pick but daisies. Shall I make a
long rope of them, as I did for the schoolroom?"
"Yes," said Rebecca, wiping her eyes and still sobbing. "Yes,
that's the prettiest, and if we put it all round her like a
frame, the undertaker couldn't be so cruel as to throw it away,
even if she is a pauper, because it will look so beautiful. From
what the Sunday school lessons say, she's only asleep now, and
when she wakes up she'll be in heaven."
"THERE'S ANOTHER PLACE," said Emma Jane, in an orthodox and
sepulchral whisper, as she took her ever-present ball of crochet
cotton from her pocket and began to twine the whiteweed blossoms
into a rope.
"Oh, well!" Rebecca replied with the easy theology that belonged
to her temperament. "They simply couldn't send her DOWN THERE
with that little weeny baby. Who'd take care of it? You know
page six of the catechism says the only companions of the wicked
after death are their father the devil and all the other evil
angels; it wouldn't be any place to bring up a baby."
"Whenever and wherever she wakes up, I hope she won't know that
the big baby is going to the poor farm. I wonder where he is?"
"Perhaps over to Mrs. Dennett's house. She didn't seem sorry a
bit, did she?"
"No, but I suppose she's tired sitting up and nursing a stranger.
Mother wasn't sorry when Gran'pa Perkins died; she couldn't be,
for he was cross all the time and had to be fed like a child.
Why ARE you crying again, Rebecca?"
"Oh, I don't know, I can't tell, Emma Jane! Only I don't want to
die and have no funeral or singing and nobody sorry for me! I
just couldn't bear it!"
"Neither could I," Emma Jane responded sympathetically; "but
p'r'aps if we're real good and die young before we have to be
fed, they will be sorry. I do wish you could write some poetry
for her as you did for Alice Robinson's canary bird, only still
better, of course, like that you read me out of your thought
book."
"I could, easy enough," exclaimed Rebecca, somewhat consoled by
the idea that her rhyming faculty could be of any use in such an
emergency. "Though I don't know but it would be kind of bold to
do it. I'm all puzzled about how people get to heaven after
they're buried. I can't understand it a bit; but if the poetry is
on her, what if that should go, too? And how could I write
anything good enough to be read out loud in heaven?"
"A little piece of paper couldn't get to heaven; it just
couldn't," asserted Emma Jane decisively. "It would be all blown
to pieces and dried up. And nobody knows that the angels can read
writing, anyway."
"They must be as educated as we are, and more so, too," agreed
Rebecca. "They must be more than just dead people, or else why
should they have wings? But I'll go off and write something while
you finish the rope; it's lucky you brought your crochet cotton
and I my lead pencil."
In fifteen or twenty minutes she returned with some lines written
on a scrap of brown wrapping paper. Standing soberly by Emma
She was a handsome girl, and I'm sorry she's come to grief."
"If she'd kep' on goin' to meetin' an' hadn't looked at the men
folks she might a' be'n earnin' an honest livin' this minute,"
said Miranda. "Men folks are at the bottom of everything wrong in
this world," she continued, unconsciously reversing the verdict
of history.
"Then we ought to be a happy and contentedcommunity here in
Riverboro," replied Jane, "as there's six women to one man."
"If 't was sixteen to one we'd be all the safer," responded
Miranda grimly, putting the doughnuts in a brown crock in the
cellar-way and slamming the door.
II
The Perkins horse and wagon rumbled along over the dusty country
road, and after a discreet silence, maintained as long as human
flesh could endure, Rebecca remarked sedately:
"It's a sad errand for such a shiny morning, isn't it, Mr.
Perkins?"
"Plenty o' trouble in the world, Rebecky, shiny mornin's an'
all," that good man replied. "If you want a bed to lay on, a roof
over your head, an' food to eat, you've got to work for em. If I
hadn't a' labored early an' late, learned my trade, an' denied
myself when I was young, I might a' be'n a pauper layin' sick in
a loggin' cabin, stead o' bein' an overseer o' the poor an'
selectman drivin' along to take the pauper to the poor farm."
"People that are mortgaged don't have to go to the poor farm, do
they, Mr. Perkins?" asked Rebecca, with a shiver of fear as she
remembered her home farm at Sunnybrook and the debt upon it; a
debt which had lain like a shadow over her childhood.
"Bless your soul, no; not unless they fail to pay up; but Sal
Perry an' her husband hadn't got fur enough along in life to BE
mortgaged. You have to own something before you can mortgage it."
Rebecca's heart bounded as she learned that a mortgage
represented a certain stage in worldly prosperity.
"Well," she said, sniffing in the fragrance of the new-mown hay
and growing hopeful as she did so; "maybe the sick woman will be
better such a beautiful day, and maybe the husband will come back
to make it up and say he's sorry, and sweet content will reign in
the humblehabitation that was once the scene of poverty, grief,
and despair. That's how it came out in a story I'm reading."
"I hain't noticed that life comes out like stories very much,"
responded the pessimistic blacksmith, who, as Rebecca privately
thought, had read less than half a dozen books in his long and
prosperous career.
A drive of three or four miles brought the party to a patch of
woodland where many of the tall pines had been hewn the previous
winter. The roof of a ramshackle hut was outlined against a
background of young birches, and a rough path made in hauling the
logs to the main road led directly to its door.
As they drew near the figure of a woman approached--Mrs. Lizy Ann
Dennett, in a gingham dress, with a calico apron over her head.
"Good morning, Mr. Perkins," said the woman, who looked tired and
irritable. "I'm real glad you come right over, for she took worse
after I sent you word, and she's dead."
Dead! The word struck heavily and mysteriously on the children's
ears. Dead! And their young lives, just begun, stretched on and
on, all decked, like hope, in living green. Dead! And all the
rest of the world reveling in strength. Dead! With all the
daisies and buttercups waving in the fields and the men heaping
the mown grass into fragrant cocks or tossing it into heavily
laden carts. Dead! With the brooks tinkling after the summer
showers, with the potatoes and corn blossoming, the birds singing
for joy, and every little insect humming and chirping, adding its
note to the blithechorus of warm, throbbing life.
"I was all alone with her. She passed away suddenly jest about
break o' day," said Lizy Ann Dennett.
"Her soul passed upward to its God Just at the break of day."
These words came suddenly into Rebecca's mind from a tiny chamber
where such things were wont to lie quietly until something
brought them to the surface. She could not remember whether she
had heard them at a funeral or read them in the hymn book or made
them up "out of her own head," but she was so thrilled with the
idea of dying just as the dawn was breaking that she scarcely
heard Mrs. Dennett's conversation.
"I sent for Aunt Beulah Day, an' she's be'n here an' laid her
out," continued the long suffering Lizy Ann. "She ain't got any
folks, an' John Winslow ain't never had any as far back as I can
remember. She belongs to your town and you'll have to bury her
and take care of Jacky--that's the boy. He's seventeen months
old, a bright little feller, the image o' John, but I can't keep
him another day. I'm all wore out; my own baby's sick, mother's
rheumatiz is extry bad, and my husband's comin' home tonight from
his week's work. If he finds a child o' John Winslow's under his
roof I can't say what would happen; you'll have to take him back
with you to the poor farm."
"I can't take him up there this afternoon," objected Mr. Perkins.
"Well, then, keep him over Sunday yourself; he's good as a
kitten. John Winslow'll hear o' Sal's death sooner or later,
unless he's gone out of the state altogether, an' when he knows
the boy's at the poor farm, I kind o' think he'll come and claim
him. Could you drive me over to the village to see about the
coffin, and would you children be afraid to stay here alone for a
spell?" she asked, turning to the girls.
"Afraid?" they both echoed uncomprehendingly.
Lizy Ann and Mr. Perkins, perceiving that the fear of a dead
presence had not entered the minds of Rebecca or Emma Jane, said
nothing, but drove off together, counseling them not to stray far
away from the cabin and promising to be back in an hour.
There was not a house within sight, either looking up or down the
shady road, and the two girls stood hand in hand, watching the
wagon out of sight; then they sat down quietly under a tree,
feeling all at once a namelessdepressionhanging over their gay
summer-morning spirits.
It was very still in the woods; just the chirp of a grasshopper
now and then, or the note of a bird, or the click of a
far-distant mowing machine.
"We're WATCHING!" whispered Emma Jane. "They watched with Gran'pa
Perkins, and there was a great funeral and two ministers. He left
two thousand dollars in the bank and a store full of goods, and a
paper thing you could cut tickets off of twice a year, and they
were just like money."
"They watched with my little sister Mira, too," said Rebecca.
"You remember when she died, and I went home to Sunnybrook Farm?
It was winter time, but she was covered with evergreen and white
pinks, and there was singing."
"There won't be any funeral or ministers or singing here, will
there? Isn't that awful?"
"I s'pose not; and oh, Emma Jane, no flowers either. We might get
those for her if there's nobody else to do it."
"Would you dare put them on to her?" asked Emma Jane, in a hushed
voice.
"I don't know; I can't tell; it makes me shiver, but, of course,
we COULD do it if we were the only friends she had. Let's look
into the cabin first and be perfectly sure that there aren't any.
Are you afraid?"
"N-no; I guess not. I looked at Gran'pa Perkins, and he was just
the same as ever."
At the door of the hut Emma Jane's courage suddenly departed. She
held back shuddering and refused either to enter or look in.
Rebecca shuddered too, but kept on, drawn by an insatiable
curiosity about life and death, an overmastering desire to know
and feel and understand the mysteries of existence, a hunger for
knowledge and experience at all hazards and at any cost.
Emma Jane hurriedsoftly away from the felt terrors of the cabin,
and after two or three minutes of utter silence Rebecca issued
from the open door, her sensitive face pale and woe-begone, the
ever-ready tears raining down her cheeks. She ran toward the edge
of the wood, sinking down by Emma Jane's side, and covering her
eyes, sobbed with excitement:
"Oh, Emma Jane, she hasn't got a flower, and she's so tired and
sad-looking, as if she'd been hurt and hurt and never had any
good times, and there's a weeny, weeny baby side of her. Oh, I
wish I hadn't gone in!"
Emma Jane blenched for an instant. "Mrs. Dennett never said THERE
WAS TWO DEAD ONES! ISN'T THAT DREADFUL? But," she continued, her
practical common sense coming to the rescue, "you've been in once
and it's all over; it won't be so bad when you take in the
flowers because you'll be used to it. The goldenrod hasn't begun
to bud, so there's nothing to pick but daisies. Shall I make a
long rope of them, as I did for the schoolroom?"
"Yes," said Rebecca, wiping her eyes and still sobbing. "Yes,
that's the prettiest, and if we put it all round her like a
frame, the undertaker couldn't be so cruel as to throw it away,
even if she is a pauper, because it will look so beautiful. From
what the Sunday school lessons say, she's only asleep now, and
when she wakes up she'll be in heaven."
"THERE'S ANOTHER PLACE," said Emma Jane, in an orthodox and
sepulchral whisper, as she took her ever-present ball of crochet
cotton from her pocket and began to twine the whiteweed blossoms
into a rope.
"Oh, well!" Rebecca replied with the easy theology that belonged
to her temperament. "They simply couldn't send her DOWN THERE
with that little weeny baby. Who'd take care of it? You know
page six of the catechism says the only companions of the wicked
after death are their father the devil and all the other evil
angels; it wouldn't be any place to bring up a baby."
"Whenever and wherever she wakes up, I hope she won't know that
the big baby is going to the poor farm. I wonder where he is?"
"Perhaps over to Mrs. Dennett's house. She didn't seem sorry a
bit, did she?"
"No, but I suppose she's tired sitting up and nursing a stranger.
Mother wasn't sorry when Gran'pa Perkins died; she couldn't be,
for he was cross all the time and had to be fed like a child.
Why ARE you crying again, Rebecca?"
"Oh, I don't know, I can't tell, Emma Jane! Only I don't want to
die and have no funeral or singing and nobody sorry for me! I
just couldn't bear it!"
"Neither could I," Emma Jane responded sympathetically; "but
p'r'aps if we're real good and die young before we have to be
fed, they will be sorry. I do wish you could write some poetry
for her as you did for Alice Robinson's canary bird, only still
better, of course, like that you read me out of your thought
book."
"I could, easy enough," exclaimed Rebecca, somewhat consoled by
the idea that her rhyming faculty could be of any use in such an
emergency. "Though I don't know but it would be kind of bold to
do it. I'm all puzzled about how people get to heaven after
they're buried. I can't understand it a bit; but if the poetry is
on her, what if that should go, too? And how could I write
anything good enough to be read out loud in heaven?"
"A little piece of paper couldn't get to heaven; it just
couldn't," asserted Emma Jane decisively. "It would be all blown
to pieces and dried up. And nobody knows that the angels can read
writing, anyway."
"They must be as educated as we are, and more so, too," agreed
Rebecca. "They must be more than just dead people, or else why
should they have wings? But I'll go off and write something while
you finish the rope; it's lucky you brought your crochet cotton
and I my lead pencil."
In fifteen or twenty minutes she returned with some lines written
on a scrap of brown wrapping paper. Standing soberly by Emma
- endure [in´djuə]
vt.忍耐，忍受；坚持 (初中英语单词) - errand [´erənd] n.差使，使命 (初中英语单词)
- shiver [´ʃivə] v.&n.(使)颤抖；碎片 (初中英语单词)
- humble [´hʌmbəl] a.谦卑的 vt.贬抑 (初中英语单词)
- poverty [´pɔvəti] n.贫穷(乏，瘠)；不足 (初中英语单词)
- despair [di´speə] vi.&n.绝望 (初中英语单词)
- mysteriously [mis´tiəriəsli] ad.神秘地；故弄玄虚地 (初中英语单词)
- insect [´insekt] n.昆虫 (初中英语单词)
- chorus [´kɔ:rəs] n.合唱；齐声 v.合唱 (初中英语单词)
- upward [´ʌpwəd] a.&ad.向上(的)；以上 (初中英语单词)
- funeral [´fju:nərəl] n.葬礼，丧葬；困难 (初中英语单词)
- suffering [´sʌfəriŋ] n.痛苦；灾害 (初中英语单词)
- altogether [,ɔ:ltə´geðə] ad.完全；总而言之 (初中英语单词)
- promising [´prɔmisiŋ] a.有希望的；有为的 (初中英语单词)
- depression [di´preʃən] n.沮丧，抑郁；萧条 (初中英语单词)
- existence [ig´zistəns] n.存在；生存；生活 (初中英语单词)
- hunger [´hʌŋgə] n.饥饿；渴望 (初中英语单词)
- softly [´sɔftli] ad.软化地；柔和地 (初中英语单词)
- instant [´instənt] a.立即的 n.紧迫；瞬间 (初中英语单词)
- dreadful [´dredful] a.可怕的；讨厌的 (初中英语单词)
- rescue [´reskju:] vt.&n.救援；挽救 (初中英语单词)
- whisper [´wispə] v.耳语 n.低语；沙沙声 (初中英语单词)
- wherever [weər´evə] conj.无论在哪里 (初中英语单词)
- faculty [´fækəlti] n.才干；天赋；院，系 (初中英语单词)
- poetry [´pəuitri] n.诗；诗意 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- seeing [si:iŋ] see的现在分词 n.视觉 (高中英语单词)
- contented [kən´tentid] a.满足的；心满意足的 (高中英语单词)
- community [kə´mju:niti] n.团体；社区；公众 (高中英语单词)
- grimly [´grimli] ad.严厉地；坚强地 (高中英语单词)
- learned [´lə:nid] a.有学问的，博学的 (高中英语单词)
- mortgage [´mɔ:gidʒ] a.&vt.抵押 (高中英语单词)
- fragrance [´freigrəns] n.芬芳，芳香 (高中英语单词)
- blacksmith [´blæk,smiθ] n.铁匠，锻工 (高中英语单词)
- fragrant [´freigrənt] a.芳香的，芬芳的 (高中英语单词)
- hanging [´hæŋiŋ] n.绞刑 a.悬挂着的 (高中英语单词)
- perfectly [´pə:fiktli] ad.理想地；完美地 (高中英语单词)
- hurried [´hʌrid] a.仓促的，慌忙的 (高中英语单词)
- sensitive [´sensitiv] a.敏感的；感光的 (高中英语单词)
- temperament [´tempərəmənt] n.气质；性格 (高中英语单词)
- unconsciously [ʌn´kɔʃəsli] ad.无意识地；不觉察地 (英语四级单词)
- worldly [´wə:ldli] a.现世的；世俗的 (英语四级单词)
- hopeful [´həupfəl] a.有希望的，激励人的 (英语四级单词)
- habitation [,hæbi´teiʃən] n.居住；住所 (英语四级单词)
- calico [´kælikəu] n.白棉布；印花布 (英语四级单词)
- mowing [´məuiŋ] n.割草(谷)；饲料地 (英语四级单词)
- evergreen [´evəgri:n] a.常绿的，常青的 (英语四级单词)
- theology [θi´ɔlədʒi] n.神学 (英语四级单词)
- canary [kə´neəri] n.金丝雀 (英语四级单词)
- soberly [´səubəli] ad.严肃地；清醒地 (英语四级单词)
- discreet [di´skri:t] a.谨慎的，考虑周到的 (英语六级单词)
- gingham [´giŋəm] n.方格花布，条格平布 (英语六级单词)
- blithe [´blaið] a.快乐的；冒失的 (英语六级单词)
- nameless [´neimlis] a.无名字的；无名声的 (英语六级单词)
- departed [di´pɑ:tid] a.已往的；已故的 (英语六级单词)
- orthodox [´ɔ:θədɔks] a.正统的；正统的；习惯的 (英语六级单词)
- crochet [´krəuʃei] n.&v.(用)钩针编织 (英语六级单词)
- wrapping [´ræpiŋ] n.包装材料 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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